Natural
by junipper
Summary: A lighthearted retelling of the Anders/Hawke romance; ft. a roguish purple Hawke and an Anders that strays close to his Awakening roots.
1. Chapter 1

He was blathering, wasn't he? Even with the sense of selflessness that came with being a proud martyr, he still knew that waffling along like a crazy person was never going to help people take him seriously. He never could help his slight spells of anger, and things hadn't exactly been standing on stable ground since the Commander had left him at the Keep for the last time - feeling far beyond heated and incredibly inept.

Hawke was cringing at him and his words, and the little she seemed to sympathise made it harder for him to contain his ramblings. Her sweetened eyes, filled with an exhausted understanding, watched his cues closely – scarred fingers pushing the dark red hair from her face that had whipped free with his burst of energy.

"You're glowing again." She grimaced, standing straight and prominent regardless of her sister's small retreat behind her. "You should calm down."

"I—" He began, folding beneath the moist fear in the younger Hawke's eyes – any ounce of fire in his voice smothered by the wet blanket of sharp shame. "I guess I should, considering you're the only people here, and I shouldn't be trying to rip your heads off."

"Good idea." Hawke grinned, taking a step back to take her leave. "Thank you for your help today, Anders." Shifting the crumbling leather pack on her shoulders, Hawke brushed away that persistent curl of red before shooting him a friendly look. "Would you like to come to the Hanged Man tonight? We're all getting together for some drinks."

He licked his sore lips and glanced off to the scratched walls, his boots scuffing the rolls of dirt beneath their soles.

"Thank you, but I may stay in tonight." As much as he would have liked to go, it would have been tiresome to watch them all get drunk together while he sat like a sad sack in the corner – drowning out their happy talk with the remembrance of his times of 'freedom' in Ferelden. Besides, Justice never was one for getting drunk – what use did spirits have for cheap swill and sore heads? "Thank you." He repeated, to not seem so ungrateful.

"Well, you'll know where we'll be if you change your mind."

And she left him there in his clinic, the sun setting through the patchy windows that let all the muck in. He had never liked being alone all that much – his whole life had been packed with people, but when the doors for the clinic shut for the night, he found that the silence was not as nice as he had always imagined. Freedom in Kirkwall was not like freedom in Ferelden. Not that it was ever freedom across the seas, more like a lengthened leash that snapped back harsher than the one held by the Circle.

It seemed odd enough having Hawke as his first 'real' friend of 'freedom'. The Commander and her companions had all been roped in together, be it by conscription or the dire need to save humanity. There was a common cause mixed in with their companionship, but Hawke seemed to visit him because of what? Friendship? It was all very strange, this 'no-strings-attached' strain of friendship that told him that she actually maybe visited him because she liked him – not because she needed his healings, or because they were all trapped in the same damned tower, or even because the darkspawn were talking now and he needed to get out of bed early on their rest day because another farm had been flattened down south…

Hawke was using _her_ freedom to visit him in her spare time – a rather lovely compliment considering the young woman was very busy and very sought-after on a quiet day. The children who darted through their parent's legs during family visits to the clinic often whispered of Lady Hawke and her adventures, and the moments where the redhead actually turned up gave them reason to cling to her pant legs and compare stories and rumours with pitched voices that rang with excitement.

Anders thought about taking her up on the offer of a warm pub and happy chatters, but he had been staring at the doors for longer than he had realised. The sun had left Kirkwall and had taken its kind lights along with it, leaving the softening blues behind to leak in through his dreary windows.

He let out an annoyed sound, lighting the candles in the sconces with his aching fingertips as he wandered around his filthy home. Even though he was weighed-down with what felt like three years of fatigue, he could feel the buzzing of Justice in the back of his head – his kindred spirit finding no concept of time and wanting to rush forth into the night to plan his iconoclasm. But Anders was tired, and even if his dreams were filled with strange whispers and dripping with taint, he knew he had to drift off sooner or later.

Rolling up an abandoned scrap of vellum, he dipped the fold into an orange flame and unlocked his front door – leaning out into the darkness to light the lanterns that swung above his dirty blond head. As the fire took to the wicks, he wondered if Hawke was still thinking about him – if she missed his company at the table like his Commander used to.

But it wasn't as if he was the same Anders he used to be. In fact, he had been missing the laughter and keen looks from everyone ever since he stepped foot on that damn boat. He hadn't made Hawke laugh, which was almost an insult to his good-standing name – and that was honestly saying so much about how miserable it made him feel, because he had even made the good Queen of Ferelden laugh so hard that she was dribbling ale from her nose for the rest of the night.

Shaking the flame free and watching the faint coil of smoke, he returned to his sanctuary and locked the doors, eying off the chunky broom in the corner of the clinic. He made a silent deal with himself, well aware of the possibility that he would obviously fail in keeping his word, and made a dull promise that if he could get through his usual night of tidying and still wanted to go out by the end of it, he would make his way to the pub in Lowtown.

And even if he didn't make it—which he knew he surely wouldn't—having the knowledge that he had thought about it made him happier than he had been in months. And that was more than enough for the meantime.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Here I am, publishing a DA2 story when Inquisition is so close to us. I've been umm-ing and ahh-ing about releasing this thing, but I grew some balls and decided to just do it - as it may push me to write more often. Title may change along the line, as well as the rating, as I intend to ramp things up a bit as the story progresses. Give me a while to shake the cobwebs off my sad brain, guys._

_Other than that, I'm keeping both twins alive, as I have a soft spot for Carver and it's not too much of a task to remove some of Mama Hawke's angst. It will keep things lighter, for now. Also a few little changes, like scenery and such - to add a little more depth to scenes. Nothing really spectacular or out of place. _

_I have a few chapters already written, so hopefully this damn story will get somewhere. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

"Anders."

The voice, although incredibly familiar, startled him. Having already set up for another night spent in brooding solitude, the mage was not expecting visitors. The general clinic was closed for the day, and the usual night emergencies never knocked on the door gently like part of a friendly visit.

"Open up – it's me." The voice faltered, and the shifting of heavy armour clinked through the wooden door. "Hawke, I should say. It's Hawke."

Warning bells began to bellow in his head and he reached for his staff, slipping to his feet before edging towards the door. There was a faint chime of giggles, from who he assumed was Hawke, joined by the low grunt of a man. Justice was straining to come forward at the faint idea of Templars, as if the woman had led them straight to his house.

Anders fought hard to keep the spirit from bursting, promising full reign if Templars were actually behind the door. His heart was in his mouth and his stomach had begun to tense at the unknown truth. Was there a chance that she would turn him over to the Order? He hadn't put a toe out of line recently, nothing that would prompt her to sell him out so soon. And why would she be laughing about it? Surely she wouldn't, surely he was just-

"Anders, are you even home?" She whispered this time, the door rattling against the deadbolt. He studied the knots in the wood to calm his mind – there was no sense in flipping out about something so simple. If it did turn out to be the redheaded rogue, he was going to have to tell her not to be so incredibly suspicious when she announced her arrivals. "He must be out. Let's be off then."

"What a waste of time." The male voice sniped back and Anders could hear Hawke scoff.

"I'm sure you wont feel the same when you get yourself stabbed again, brother." Her voice was fading off into the night, and the mage switched into gear – the bolt clicking and the panel swinging open. He caught the tail end of Hawke, who was watching as a metal boot disappeared up a fetid hole in the wall.

The woman swung around, eyes brightening when they caught his.

"So you _are _home." Hawke started towards him, completely unabashed by his obvious ignorance. The comedown from the rush of fear left small beads of sweat lacing his hairline, heart shuddering back into place as she turned back towards the decaying ladder. "Hey, we're going to clear out my mother's old estate. Would you like to come?"

"You shouldn't sneak around my door like that." He managed, and she grinned – taking large steps towards the entry. "You worried me."

"I'm sorry," she had a foot on the ladder, pushing her hair from her eyes as her gaze rolled over him, "I figured you must have heard us from miles away. Carver stepped in what I assume was rat brains on the way down here and has been cursing loudly ever since." Her lips twitched into a smug smile. "You coming?"

"What exactly needs to be cleared out?" The mage deadpanned and her smile widened, Hawke hitching herself up a rung.

"Just a few cobwebs." She teased. "Thinking of having a tea-party when we're done, actually." His awkward laugh made her joke fall flat, but he strapped his staff to his back regardless. "Slavers." Hawke then added flatly. "Uncle had to sell off the estate to pay some debts."

"Sounds like a good man."

"He's an inspiration to us all, really. Does this mean you're coming?" She asked, and his agreement sounded from inside the clinic – worn hands already gathering the equipment he figured necessary. "Meet you in there!" The words were called to him from inside the hole, echoing out into the murmurs of Darktown. "We'll wait for you!"

Anders found them between two looming casks of Maker-knows-what, the Hawke siblings bickering quietly over something that seemed rather unimportant. Their accomplice, a broad-shouldered woman in City Guard amour, had her arms folded in a pained amusement as she watched on – as if it was it were a regular occurrence. The way that Hawke danced around her little brother's scathing words told Anders that it was, and his arrival saved the rogue from getting in any further trouble with the dark-haired warrior.

"Aveline, Anders." Hawke pointed her dagger between them – the woman with the flaming red hair glancing his way and nodding in greeting. "Anders, Aveline. And you've met Carver before, right?"

"I believe so." Anders agreed, meeting the deep blue eyes of Hawke's younger brother. The lad scowled, and recognition swept between the two. The rogue had dragged the boy to Anders' clinic one afternoon after he had nearly been gutted by one of the many bandits hanging in Lowtown – much to Carver's noticeable distaste. Obviously the young man held a deep distrust for anyone that wasn't, well, he didn't seem to like anyone really.

"Unfortunately." The warrior added.

Hawke _had _previously mentioned that Carver was naturally cranky. According to the woman's tales, the boy had come out of their mother looking like he had just finished sucking on the last of Ferelden's lemons. Now every time he looked at the man, Anders couldn't help but scoff at the thought. It was a nice way of putting it, he guessed.

They started off into the dark basements of the Amell estate; Aveline falling in step with Anders while Hawke led them to their next battle. The woman absolutely towered over him, and although it was incredibly emasculating, Anders felt safer knowing that her powerful arms could probably rip a raider in two.

She was looking down at him, most likely scanning for any danger and even though her eyes did not betray her thoughts, Anders knew that Hawke had most likely filled her in on his situation. The rogue had spoken of Aveline before, about how they fled Ferelden together – the woman's voice washed with a tone that tasted of strong friendship. The fact that the tall woman was strapped into a uniform was not all that reassuring, but she hadn't dragged him off to the Gallows yet, which in itself was a comfort he could get used to.

"I've heard good things about you, Anders." She began, her voice laced with a friendly lilt he hadn't expected. "Not what I expected."

"For a mage, you mean." He replied flatly, glancing towards Hawke who had turned to add to the conversation. Carver had already begun to say something beneath his breath, but was cut short by the thudding of leather boots on the floorboards as a slaver jumped from the level above.

The basement was soon alight with battle, Hawke sifting into the darkness as Aveline crushed a man's breastplate with her shield. Anders' eyesight sharpened – watching closely as the warriors swung together in the heat of it all, taking the brunt of whatever damage that surged their way. Hawke materialised in sharp moments, bursting from deep swirls of smoke to take an enemy from behind – her daggers almost sensing the weak points in the opposing armour before she flipped off into the obscurities that lined the walls.

A well-aimed breath of frost shot up the ankles of a slaver, and Carver Hawke cleaved through the poor soul in one foul swing – a chunk of man shattering against the age-old flooring. The warrior's boots crunched through the pieces, Aveline ducking below another one of Carver's slices before slamming up into her next victim. Anders pushed back a couple of steps, keeping his eyes firmly set on the two fighters as Hawke appeared again, kicking an unsuspecting slaver dead in the chest with such force that he staggered back into a pile of rotting crates. The mage finished him off with a push of energy, folding the slaver's torso in on itself as his body rolled against the wall.

Slipping on a strategically spread patch of ice, the last slaver landed on his face with a sad sounding crunch – Aveline falling back and casing her sword as Carver jabbed him through the back. The fading gurgles died out rather suddenly as the sword twisted in the flesh, blood seething from the fresh wound when the steel was removed. Hawke appeared beside him, clapping her little brother on the back with a proud glance at his handiwork.

"If it's all as easy as this, brother, you will have your own bedroom sooner than you think." She squeezed his shoulder, turning away too quickly to see the small smile tug at the younger Hawke's lips. When Anders caught the small display of affection however, he found himself on the tail end of a scathing look.

The redhead made fine work of the pressure plates that lay dormant beneath the floorboards – the strong arms of Aveline prying the age-old wood apart so Hawke could disarm them without any problems. Things were flowing rather smoothly as they progressed from room to room – running in a certain pattern that gave them all a well-earned shot of confidence. Hawke would disarm any traps that threatened their feet, Aveline would scope the room for possible hazards and whispered to them her strong battle plans, and Carver would alert all enemies of their presence with his rather aggressive enthusiasm. Anders hung back, watching them all, not wanting to disrupt the obvious comfort the three shared between years of fighting together.

If he hadn't known any better, he would have figured Hawke as Aveline's sister. The colouring was on the same page, both spattered with freckles and kept a strong jaw - but Hawke always looked incredibly cheeky and the guardswoman was without a doubt terrifying. Besides, Aveline seemed as if she would burn in the moonlight, while the deeper redhead had a lovely crisp tone to her – like the first fallen leaves of Harvestmere. It was a romantic thought, as Hawke was certainly considered a beautiful woman by all standards, but the idea of her being anything other than a brazen scoundrel was well out of his grasp. He knew better than to wade into those sorts of feelings now that he was… well… Anders was not exactly Anders anymore.

Halfway through what was thought to be an empty room, there was a sudden pop of arrival and a shout from Carver, and the place lit up with a bloom of fire. The enchanted flames licked up the lining of Anders' coat and he jumped back a few feet – putting himself out with a hiss of frost that licked the heat almost instantly. Someone was casting from the other side of the room, sending balls of fire to burst at their unsuspecting boots. Hawke had disappeared from his view once again, her shadow staining the air around them with the sweet silhouettes of her alarm.

A hoard of slavers came down the stairs in the far end of the basement, barely seen through the smoke that was flowering from the burning crates that sat stacked in the corners. Aveline was pushed back, staggering from the whip of repulsion that burst from the enemy mage – Carver now flat on his back from the unexpected shove. It took him a moment to recuperate, staring blankly at the ceiling, and Anders sent him a brush of rejuvenation that gave the young Hawke the strength to find his feet.

Aveline let out a sharp whistle, and the group turned their focus towards her – slicing swings sliding from her shield, removing the chance to block her thrust that pierced through the meagre leather armour of their rivals. She took out one, and then another, and ducked just in time to watch Carver Hawke remove the head of the woman who was shrieking directions to her fellow thugs.

Sending a roll of ice to slick the floor, Anders dragged the cold bite up to the waists of the remaining slavers – stopping them mid-step towards the warriors who were still shrugging off the ache of the last impact. A friendly shout of warning came from the shadows and they jumped back, a grenade rolling between the feet of the unluckiest man of the night. The four adversaries were swallowed by a ball of flames, strange screams eaten by the crackle and roar of a quickly risen temperature.

Hawke had her sights set on the mage – dropping to her knees after a running start, sliding past the conjurer to claw her way up his robes while his defences were down. Her shanks sunk into his unprotected back, and she pushed away with a boot to the arse, slinking off into the darkness once again. The foreign magic faded and it was suddenly quiet, Carver's heavy breathing grating over the soft footfalls of Hawke's abrupt appearance.

"I am not cleaning this up." She began, blowing her hair from her eyes. "You think there's more?"

Aveline held for a second, squinting up at the ceiling. "I'm sure they'll find us if there are."

Hawke started up the stairs as Anders put out the smouldering ground, Carver cleaning the blood and mess from his blade. Aveline toddled over to the mage, elbow resting on the pommel of her sword as she stomped out the remaining embers with a confident heel. "Good things, Anders, for a Ferelden lurking in Darktown." She corrected him gently, strong jaw set with an authority he had been programmed to dislike. "Mage or not."

"Of course." He dried his fingers on his coat, losing the moisture in the suede. "Fair point." Glancing up at her with a cautious gaze, he caught the woman's pleasant look and felt uncomfortable. Somehow he figured that he would have no trouble from the guard, taking Hawke's track record into account. Perhaps it would be in his best interest to keep his mouth shut around the looming redhead.

"Oh, it's our lucky day!" Hawke's happy voice echoed from the room above. "A lovely pair of trousers with a hole right in the seat." She returned with a bundle of deep blue fabric, pitching it in the direction of her little brother. "I bet they're your size – try them on!"

"Here's an idea, Marian," Little Hawke started, jumping over the slacks to plod up after her, "let's see how well they fit down your throat."

The rogue warbled with laughter and slipped away, followed by the remaining warrior and the blond mage, who seemed enlightened by the happy chatter from the three. Spending a majority of his time tending to the ill and needy, he had forgotten about how much he enjoyed being around healthy people – those who spoke without being weighed down by dire horizons. Solitude had never exactly suited him, and the renegade found some kind of sick paradox in actually enjoying being crammed into claustrophobic buildings with a smatter of chatty people.

Greeted by the stained wallpaper of the safe room, the four stood in awe of the faded, although incredibly luxurious, silk of the walls before they set to work on the ivory-trimmed cupboards and hand carved chests that had been stacked into the corners. Anders would freeze the padlocks and Aveline would bash them off with her shield, Hawke taking the smarter way by gently picking the locks – something that seemed practised to perfection by the way her fingers never missed a beat. Carver was pillaging the stockpiles, flinging musty garments from their hangers and clearing shelves of bejewelled trinket boxes with a carelessness that almost seemed put-on.

Hawke wasn't too bothered about it, though, completely blasé about the mindless destruction of family heirlooms. The siblings searched with a persistent fire behind their eyes that strived for something more important than expensive ornaments and fine silks – the happiness they had been working towards during their year in Kirkwall – and when Carver returned with a crumpled piece of parchment, Anders felt the thrill of achievement that came with the bright spark in Hawke's eye.

"Got it," the dark-haired warrior waved it at his sister and the two attached themselves at the hip to squint at the paper. "Says here that the estate went to mother! And Gamlen inherited nothing..." He trailed off, glaring at the wall behind Aveline's head. "… Sodding prick of a man! Who steals his sister's inheritance and lies about it?"

"A sodding prick of a man." Marian breathed, scanning over the vellum softly wrestled from her brother before she started towards the stairs. She glanced back at them all; her eyes alight with what Anders could guess was pure adventure. "We have to get this home to mother and Bethany."

He and Aveline were left in their dust, the Hawke siblings bolting off towards the exit. Carver had already jumped down through the hole by the time they had reached Hawke at the exit to Darktown. She ushered Aveline down the ladder and then waved Anders along – appearing beside him a moment after his boots thudded to the filthy ground.

Carver seemed to have fled, too keen on getting the news home before Marian could steal the spotlight with her roguish grin. The guardswoman was soon after him, mumbling something about safety in numbers and before Hawke could follow along, she turned back to the heavy-eyed mage.

"Thanks for your help tonight." She held out her hand and he took it – not prepared for the almost painful firmness of her handshake. "We couldn't have done it without you."

He was one hundred percent certain that she most definitely could have, but the compliment was welcomed all the same. "No problem at all, Hawke." He gave her sturdy hand a humorous squeeze and she grinned at him. "Just promise to remember us all when you're hosting your very first High Tea."

"It will be your faces branded into every slice of sweetbread I eat, I promise." The redhead let him go, hands finding her hips. "I have to go though, or Carver's going to steal all the glory." She waved at him, trotting backwards in anticipation for his response. "Good night!"

"Come find me if you need me!" He called at her back after she turned, and she glanced over her shoulder – throwing a positive hand-signal his way.

"Naturally." She laughed at him, disappearing down the stairs from his clinic, and he let out a dead sigh. "Good night, Anders!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **When I got the first DA game, my housemate said to me: "The first game is really great - and the expansion is even better! There's this mage, though, who in the expansion is really fucking funny and handy and I always kept him in my party because his banter is too good, but then he's in the second game as well and he is just straight on your dick." And I was like, alright, excited to see this. And what do you know, now I romance Anders in every playthrough I do. Although, each playthrough he just becomes more of a joke to me and I get better at laughing at him because in reality he's so uncomfortably broody and that first kiss scene oh my god. OH MY GOD. The noises. The noises will haunt me forever._


End file.
